Instead, she said,
“Richard, I don’t want your apology.”
Dad lowered his head.
“I don’t want you to tell me you were confused.”
He remained silent.
“I don’t want you to tell me you needed the money.”
Still silent.
“I want you to tell me why.”
Dad finally looked at her.
His eyes were wet.
“Because I thought you would always forgive me.”
Grandma stared at him.
He continued.
“You always did.”
She nodded slowly.
“That was my mistake.”
Dad’s face crumpled.
“Mom…”
She raised her hand.
“No.”
He stopped.
“You don’t get to call me Mom when you want forgiveness and treat me like an account number when you want money.”
My father’s eyes filled with tears.
“I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I was selfish.”
“Yes.”
“I was scared.”
Grandma looked at him.
“Of what?”
He swallowed.
“Of having nothing.”
Grandma’s expression softened for the first time.
“You already had something.”
Dad looked at her.
“You had a mother who loved you.”
Silence.
“You had a family.”
She took a breath.
“And you traded that for money you didn’t even need.”
Dad began crying.
But Grandma didn’t move toward him.
She didn’t hug him.
